“Which ‘ouse might you be a-meanin’, Tummas?” queried Farmer Thorpe, with a slow grin—­“Your own or your measter’s?”

“When we speaks in the plural we means not one, but two,”—­rejoined Bainton with dignity.  “An’ when I sez ‘our’ I means myself an’ Passon, which Miss Vancourt ain’t as yet left her card on Passon.  He went up in a great ’urry one afternoon when he knowed she was out,—­ he knowed it, ’cos I told ’im as ‘ow I’d seen her gallopin’ by on that mare of hers which, they calls Cleopatra-an’ away ’e run like a March ‘are, an’ he ups to the Manor and down again, an’ sez he, laughin’ like:  ‘I’ve done my dooty by the lady’ sez he—­’I’ve left my card!’ That was three days ago, an’ there ain’t been no return o’ the perliteness up to the present—­”

Here he broke off and began to drink his ale, as a small dapper man entered the bar-room with a brisk step and called for ’a glass of home-brewed,’ looking round on those assembled with a condescending smile.  All of them knew him as Jim Bennett, Miss Vancourt’s groom.

“Well, mates!” he said with a sprightly air of familiarity—­“All well and hearty?”

“As yourself, Mr. Bennett,”—­replied Roger Buggins, acting as spokesman for the rest, and personally serving him with the foaming draught he had ordered.  “Which, we likewise trusts your lady is well?”

“My lady enjoys the hest of health, thank you!” said Bennett, with polite gravity.  And tossing off the contents of his glass, he signified by an eloquent gesture and accompanying wink, that he was ‘good for another.’

“We was just a-sayin’ as you come in, Mr. Bennett,” observed Dan Ridley, “that we’d none of us seen your lady at church yet on Sundays, Mebbe she ain’t of our ‘persuasion’ as they sez, or mehbe she goes into Riversford, preferrin’ ’Igh services—–­”

Bennett smiled a superior smile, and leaning easily against the bar, crossed his legs and surveyed the company generally with a compassionate air.

“I suppose it’s quite a business down here,—­goin’ to church, eh?” he queried—­“Sort of excitement like—­only bit of fun you’ve got—­ helps to keep you all alive!  That’s the country way, but Lord bless you!—­in town we’re not taking any!”

Bainton looked up,—­and Mr. Netlips loosened his collar and lifted his head, as though preparing himself for another flow of ‘cohesion’ eloquence.  Farmer Thorpe turned his bull-neck slowly round, and brought his eyes to bear on the speaker.

“How d’ye make that out, Mr. Bennett?” he demanded.  “Doan’t ye sarve the A’mighty same in town as in country?”

“Not a bit of it!” replied Bennett airily—­“You’re a long way behind the times, Mr. Thorpe!—­you are indeed, beggin’ your pardon for sayin’ so!  The ‘best’ people have given up the Almighty altogether, owing to recent scientific discoveries.  They’ve taken to the Almighty Dollar instead which no science can do away with.  And Sundays aren’t used any more for church-going, except among the middle-class population,—­they’re just Bridge days with our set—­ Bridge lunches, Bridge suppers,—­every Sunday’s chock full of engagements to ‘Bridge,’ right through the ‘season.’”